


it's time to steal away

by streetsamurai



Series: Jenny of Blackwater [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chapter 2: Horseshoe Overlook (Red Dead Redemption 2), Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Young Arthur Morgan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:27:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21576802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/streetsamurai/pseuds/streetsamurai
Summary: “Shut up, kid,” Micah barks for the umpteenth time. Arthur’s too tired to fight him, so shut up he does. Dutch entrusted them with ensuring the safety of their camp, which evidently ain’t happening today, and so Arthur simply gives up.
Relationships: John Marston & Arthur Morgan, Micah Bell/Arthur Morgan
Series: Jenny of Blackwater [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1392520
Comments: 14
Kudos: 83





	it's time to steal away

**Author's Note:**

> Arthur is 20.  
> The breed registry for Kentucky Saddlers was formed in 1891, where the breed was called American Saddlebred. I think it'd make sense for young Arthur to call his Saddler a Saddlebred, fancy-like.  
> Boadicea is a gold chestnut Saddler in my AU (just swap the silver bay's mane and tail for brown ones in the game and that's my image of Boadicea). The starting Adlers' horse is the same, except I prefer him to have a silver tail. That's it folks.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

After spending almost two weeks in the snow, the mild temperatures of New Hanover feel like summer coming early.

Riding in the early afternoon, Arthur enjoys the light breeze rushing across the Dakota River. It’s sunny, and the warmth from the sun feels good with the crisp spring wind on Arthur’s skin.

Dutch and him are riding ahead of the procession. The Count’s determined to keep his ears flat in the presence of the new horse —one pinto stallion under Arthur, a newly introduced courtesy of the O’Driscolls.

Or Micah, to be more precise, who brought the horse back to their camp in Colter.

This small recollection of the man’s name kills the pleasant mood Arthur’s had after their successful train robbery.

He still feels pride and warmth over that one. Lenny and him were the only ones to stay atop the running train, and it’s Arthur who’d managed to stop the damn thing.

He tries to push the worry of Williamson blaming him for the failed dynamite away, and focuses on his surroundings instead. Copper is striding ahead, all gentlemanly until another rodent gets in his sights. 

Sensing Arthur's gaze next, The Count snorts and mocks a bite in the pinto’s direction. Arthur shakes his head, turning to Dutch.

“I think I never got the chance to get rid of her horseshoes,” he says. Can’t quite bring her name to his lips yet, but Dutch understands who he is talking about right away.

His Boadicea, a young American Saddlebred, now dead and taken apart by vultures somewhere outside of Blackwater. She bled out before he could do anything; Hosea snatched him up and onto Silver Dollar’s saddle after she toppled, having no more strength to continue, and with all the madness of the past two weeks Arthur hasn’t had any chance to properly deal with the memory of leaving her to die.

“Lucky, son. I know it’s tough,” Dutch says, “losin’ a horse like that. She was a fine animal,” he nods, contemplative. “You can’t replace them.”

Arthur gives his pinto a critical look—of what he can see from the saddle without much effort, at least. The stallion is shorter and sturdier, with a strong but long neck, heavy head and good muscle. Nice coat, too—a rich dark cherry color to his spots, black mane and a well-kept silver tail. Whoever had him before Arthur took good care of him.

He can’t think of replacing Boadicea. She’s his first proper horse. Despite all the trouble he went through with her on account of both her young age and Arthur’s lack of experience with green horses, he holds many fond memories of her. 

For now, they’re all tainted with guilt and regret.

Guilt over pushing her, not realizing that she’d been shot. Over leading her in a situation where she could get hurt in the first place.

Regret over the fact that Dutch went through with the ferry job, despite Hosea’s warnings against it.

He doesn’t want to choose between the two men, but he feels that he can’t help having to take a side this time.

“No, can’t replace them,” he agrees, once again avoiding the sore thoughts.

“Doesn’t mean you have to go horseless, now,” Dutch says, giving him a pointed look. “Keeping this one, then?”

“No,” Arthur blurts out before he can think. Trying to smooth that over, he says again, “No. Want to choose something myself, now.”

The animal isn’t at fault that Micah Bell was the one to bring it back. Arthur doesn’t feel acute discomfort riding the pinto, but the thought of owing Bell his horse, or anything for that matter, is sickening.

The pinto can make a nice riding horse for whoever might need him in camp. Arthur’s gonna keep an eye out for other options.

So far, there aren’t many, though. Just an endless valley full of rabbits, each and every one of them daredeviling right under the horses’ hooves. 

“I think this is the place,” Dutch drawls when they slow down at a crossroads. Dakota River on their right, an overlook on the left, and burned down remains of a town ahead.

Frowning, Arthur turns in the saddle to pointedly look behind them, where just up the hill is another patch of a forest charred with fire. “Charmin’ place we got here.”

“Quit it, Arthur,” Dutch snaps softly, “’Les you wanna go back to Colter? Mister Pearson, please see if this is the place Mister Matthews talked about!”

_Wanna go back to New Austin_ , Arthur thinks but bites his tongue. Behind him Pearson shuffles with a map, folded together to show just the state of New Hanover. 

“Well, it does look we’re in the right place. Just up there, then,” Pearson concludes after a full minute of studying the map.

Arthur quickly sweeps the wagons and horses following them with his eyes, noting that Hosea’s wagon is nowhere to be seen yet, and so is Charles Smith. He doesn’t worry yet, as Hosea was the one to suggest the place; surely he won’t get lost.

Dutch clicks his spurs to send The Count into a climb up the hill, and Arthur follows, hand on a holster. If the place’s good for a camp, they might not be the only ones to swing by. Copper passes them by, silent, but wagging his tail in excitement.

They trot through the woods and into a green clearing with a huge overlook of the valley and hills of West Elizabeth. 

The pinto, seeing the large clean area and sensing a rest soon to come, bucks shyly, pacing in place before Arthur gives him some rein. They circle the clearing, noting some wagon carnage, likely from previous campers, and a few good spots for a fire and for the horses.

“This is the place, then,” Dutch concludes. Wagons pull up behind them. “Miss Grimshaw, Mister Pearson, please start setting up camp,” he says, dismounting and leading The Cound to the taller grass closer to the trees. The horse bites into it, clearly starved from Colter. “Mister Escuella, please take first watch and meet Mister Matthews and Mister Smith, in case they would kindly find the time to pay us a visit… Mister Bell—”

Arthur’s stomach drops.

“—Mister _Morgan_ ,” Dutch turns back to him, stressing his name _for some reason_ , “Would you please scout the area for any… unfriendly faces, be it Pinkertons or bounty hunters or angry ranchers…”

Micah doesn’t look too pleased, but sneers a yes nonetheless. The inside of Arthur’s mouth tingles like he might puke.

“Dutch,” he calls, almost pleadingly before he can catch himself. There’s no way he can whine his way out of the situation. There’s no reason for refusing that Dutch’s aware of. “I ain’t feeli—”

“I know, I know, son! We all are, believe me, ain't _feelin’_ well, but I know for a fact that _knowing no one’s on our heels_ while we wait for things to calm down here would improve everyone’s well-being drastically, so please, let’s not start with this again, I can’t _have_ this right now.”

He’s referring to Arthur trying to get away from working with anyone after—after the coach job. Arthur feels a pang of hurt at being dismissed like that. Realistically, there’s nothing he can do to make this better, and Hosea still hasn’t returned yet to comfort him over what he perceives to be some jobs just not pulling through.

So Arthur acquiesces, silently turning the pinto and heading back the way he came from. One question is at the tip of his tongue, though. Can’t Dutch send Lenny?

Lenny smiles at him, unloading one of the wagons, and Arthur’s mood drops even more. Not a single part of him would want himself and Lenny switch places when it comes to Bell, and so Arthur rides out of camp to the sounds of the O’Driscoll prisoner kicking over being manhandled from one of the wagons and Copper barking away. 

Arthur’s halfway to the river when his companion reminds of his presence.

“Goin’ somewhere, cowpoke?”

It takes a moment for Arthur to find his voice. It still baffles him, how Micah acts like nothing has happened, full of himself.

“Scoutin’ ahead, like Dutch said.”

“Well, scoutin’ ahead we are, then,” Bell says and kicks Baylock, turning west.

Arthur did not expect anything good from this, and yet here they are. 

Running with Micah is madness, and if normally his insanity is cushioned by the rest of the camp, once again Arthur’s dunked in a situation where it’s just the two of them.

Instead of surveying New Hanover, they return to West Elizabeth. Arthur can’t believe Micah led them back to Strawberry, a town their gang had just stormed through on the run from the law.

It’s late at night when they arrive, Micah’s on his way to half-drunk in the saddle, but for now they both seem to share deep exhaustion brought by their hike in the mountains and long journey first to the new camp spot and now here. They’ve crossed two state borders in just one day.

“Shut up, kid,” Micah barks for the umpteenth time. Arthur’s too tired to fight him, so shut up he does. Dutch entrusted them with ensuring the safety of their camp, which evidently ain’t happening today, and so Arthur simply gives up.

He did his best at convincing Micah to do what they were told. Now he’s too damn tired. Once Strawberry’s Welcome Center comes into view, all he can think of is sleep.

They tether their horses outside. Arthur goes to find some hay for the night as Baylock and the pinto suck at the water in the common trough near the hitching posts. 

Inside the Welcome Center is surprisingly rather welcoming; the owner greets him from his table.

“How can I help you, sir?” 

“I, uh—my brother’s just—”

“Up here, cowpoke!” Micah calls him over the rails from the upper floor. Arthur shuffles up the stairs, crosses the small guest area to the two doors, and reaches out for his key.

Micah looks at him like he’s just spurted a second head. “What’d ya want, brat?”

“My key?”

“Your key.”

“To my room.”

Micah snorts, opens the room with one key he holds in his hand—just one—and walks inside, bowing for Arthur and mockingly gesturing for him to proceed into the room.

Arthur’s jaw drops. “ _No_.” Should’ve expected this.

“No what?”

“I ain’t—”

“And _I_ ain’t spending my money on you, you damn moron. So unless you got some to spare…” Micah chuckles, repeating that bowing-welcoming thing again.

“I’m sleeping outside in a tent.”

“Ain’t got a tent with us!” Micah cheers.

“I’m sleeping outside in a bedroll.”

Just as Arthur turns around, Micah grabs at his arm, yanks him back and looms over him. His breath, hot on Arthur’s face, stinks of booze and weeks of not seeing tooth powder.

“You ain’t sleepin’ outside like some lone ranger, cowpoke. Someone might just recognize you, too.”

And with that, Arthur’s being forced inside, the door slamming behind them, and Micah letting his arm to instantly grab at Arthur’s gunbelt.

Panic shoots through his spine as he realizes what this is about. He kicks Micah in the sheen, and Micah _howls_ before biting at his lip and slapping Arthur with all his strength.

Arthur crashes into the drawer behind him, the sharp edge cutting into his lower back through his thick winter coat. Micah’s grabs at the fur collar and knocks Arthur to the floor.

He’s pinning both Arthur’s hands with just one, the other hand working on taking off his clothes. He makes a quick job of that, too, straddling him while Arthur kicks and snarls.

“— _Get off me_ ,” Arthur pants.

“Quit _squirming_ , durn it! The hell’d ya expect, me payin’ for a room for you to nap in or what?”

They’re both out of breath now. Micah’s a heavy weight on Arthur’s legs. Arthur feels like his head’s filling with cotton and his limbs with lead. They both still. Micah’s tugged off Arthur's coat, shirt and union suit together, so now Arthur’s lying on them.

He has his pants on, but it’s a matter of time before Micah gets those off as well.

As if on cue, Bell takes him by his upper arms, hoists him on the bed, and before Arthur can recollect himself to take a swing at him or do _anything at all_ , he feels a leather belt looping around his wrists.

He’s so god damn exhausted he can’t even turn over on his own, and yet Micah seems just fucking fine. 

Maybe Arthur’s should have had a drink, too. Maybe he should’ve had gone on his own, or split off once he was sure they weren’t going where Dutch wanted them.

But Arthur’s a moron and Micah knows that too well.

He tugs at the restraint once, the metal buckle briefly cutting into Arthur’s skin. Satisfied, Micah turns him over on his back and takes the rest of his clothes off.

The union suit and the pants go. Arthur lands a weak kick at his jaw, but to no avail.

Finally, Micah sits back, laughing heartily after taking a good look at him. “Christ, cowpoke, and here I was, regrettin’ I didn’t get to take young Jenny Kirk to bed back then instead of you.”

Arthur’s insides coil and slither like living things. He spits at Micah, already anticipating the backhanding. It’s not as bad when he’s waiting for it, Arthur notices.

“I’m gonna tell Dutch when we come back. He’ll kill you.” As the words leave his mouth, Arthur’s brain catches up. Nothing’s stopping Micah from cutting his throat here. Bell’s already wanted in West Elizabeth, and the murder of a presumably innocent victim won’t cause any significant change; Dutch’s Boys already got the law after them. 

Distantly, Arthur muses it’s a miracle neither him nor John have a price on their heads yet. He hasn’t seen a single poster with their face on it in the five years since Dutch took him in.

He can’t help the relief flooding his chest when murdering him isn’t the thing Micah focuses on.

“Kill me? For what?” Micah asks instead, a smug, stupid smile baring his coffee-darkened teeth.

“ _For what?_ Maybe for—”

Micah doesn’t let him say anything, fingers gripping his jaw and squeezing. “Come on, you sour-faced idiot, Dutch knows you hate my durn guts since I apparently blew your damn job. Now, I know your Pappy loves you dearly…” Micah’s face contorts in fake sympathy, “but we both know he ain’t the type to let some street brat try and pull his strings…”

Arthur stares him in the eye. His dismay might be apparent on his face, though, as Micah continues rambling out loud.

“Then again, you ain’t some street brat, now, are you? You’re his brat. Son of Dutch.” Micah’s voice seethes with mock sympathy. “Just think how old Daddy Dutch’d feel if he found out big bad Micah Bell had a tumble with his favorite son… And his son let him.”

That’s so much _shit_ Arthur actually chokes on his spit. “I ain’t—” only to be cut off again with a warning shake.

“Oh you _are_ , Morgan, you are. What, is this a bruise on my arm? Just one? Any others I don’t know about?” He quickly pats himself down as if actually checking for any more injuries. “Pathetic. Just admit you’re enjoyin’ this too. Or— _I know_. You’re into theatrics, ain’t you? Must be your other daddy’s influence…”

The mention of Hosea is nauseating. Arthur thinks about him, thinks of Hosea somehow seeing him like this and turning away in absolute disgust at what he’s doing, disappointed he can’t stand up for himself after Hosea’s put trust and years of teaching into him. Arthur swallows bile as Micah manhandles him back on his stomach, tugging at the belt around his wrists for good measure. Not checking, just—reminding, Arthur feels like.

Maybe Micah’s the damn devil in his head, reading his thoughts, because he knows exactly what Arthur wants to fucking forget about, never have brought up again:

“Now tell me, what’d you think exactly Dutch’s gonna do when he finds out his favorite boy is such a damn whim? Can’t imagine it’s gonna be pretty, cowpoke.”

Micah is a fucking snake. He tries to get in his head, slither inside through Arthur’s ears, and the worst thing is that it works. It works because he’s right.

How the hell did Arthur think he was gonna go around this, telling Dutch about Micah?

He had been so humiliated after Blackwater, praying for a dust storm to bury him in the prairie and be done with all that. Even Mary-Beth’d noticed he was avoiding everyone—and at the time she’d been working extra after an argument with Grimshaw, and spending what little free time she had nose-deep in a new leather-clad notebook Hosea got her for her twenty first birthday.

And John had always teased him endlessly, but he stopped the day Arthur and Micah came back from their job. Saw something was off, he did.

God, thinking of John hurts more than anything. The thought that he might know is the worst. Even seeing Micah again wasn’t as bad as running into Marston in camp.

So what now? Now Arthur decided he can run to Dutch and spill all this, not make a scene of himself?

And if he goes through but Dutch doesn’t believe him? He can’t imagine facing him ever again. Can’t imagine what he would do if he came to Dutch and got laughed at in his face, like Micah always does to him, saw disgust or disappointment in that man’s eyes.

Micah lifts his hips. Arthur hears him opening an ointment tin. Feels the burn of its content on his skin. Feels Micah apply more of it.

And then Micah shoves in, unceremoniously. Feels like he’s taking up all the space in Arthur’s guts.

Unlike last time, Arthur doesn’t get any time to adjust. Micah starts moving. Arthur can only think of it as feeling his intestines being pulled out and shoved in again. He groans in pain, turns his head to the side, nearly bites down on the skin of his own shoulder. It smells of smoke, and somehow that makes it even worse.

Arthur can smell the campfire from that last time, taste the memory of sweetened rum and the blood from now as he breaks his skin with his teeth.

This time, Micah’s slower. Dead-set on prolonging the torture, must be. He pulls out more, takes long breaks, moans and pants and makes sounds of a man dying, not fucking someone into a bed. Lets his hands roam all over Arthur this time, seeing as Arthur can’t move a finger. Arthur’s hands are going numb from how they’re tied behind him, not to mention the belt cutting into the skin of his wrists.

Bell isn’t holding him down for a quick tumble at a campfire. This time, he’s paid for the luxury of a proper room, and so he is dead-set on getting his money’s worth from Arthur.

No matter how generous Micah is with the slick, how much he seems to be trying to get a response from Arthur with pinching him periodically, muttering questions under his breath, all eerily sounding like ‘Don’t it feel good?’, Arthur wants to fucking die.

Micah’s girth is too much for him, not like he got a chance to get used to it. Trying to distract himself, he thinks—thinks this actually might feel good, when Micah bottoms out and Arthur can feel pressure over a certain spot in his guts, but.

Not with Micah fucking Bell.

Arthur’s drooling from his open mouth.

“C’mon, Morgan, ain’t you enjoyin’ it at all?” Micah asks, voice low, and follows that with a groan. Maybe, finally, he’s letting himself get close. “Because you know what, Arthur?”

And then he bends over him, squeezes his jaw with fingers wet with slick, and licks his face—along the line of the jaw, biting and leaving a trail of saliva.

“The best girl it town should have my spend inside her.”

“Just shut up, please,” Arthur says and realizes to his horror he’s crying again, and the tears’re in his voice, too.

Micah does fall silent, the room filled with the sounds of his labored breath. An evidence enough he isn’t obliging, but rather chasing his own high. Then he finally stills with a long sigh, a vice grip of his hands squeezing all breath out of Arthur. Pulls out after a few seconds, still holding Arthur with one hand—and then Arthur feels more hot wetness between his cheeks, on the back of his thighs, and a few hot drops landing on his back. 

Then Micah lets go.

Arthur rolls on his side and bites into his lip. He’s heaving, trying his damned best to keep the sobs down, to not let it be known, _loudly_ , how much he hates this and hates Micah Bell and hates himself. The cotton in his ears drowns out all sound, something he notices only once his hearing starts getting back to normal. Arthur hears Micah breathing heavily, laughing again. As always, he’s fucking _laughing_ at him.

Doesn’t recall when he finally blacks out, curled naked in the sheets with Micah resting behind him. At some point his arms are released and blood rushes back into them, and that only plunges him deeper into the dark.

And then he’s waking up to the shouting and gunshots outside, the sunlight in his eyes, and waves of pain surging through the entirety of his body.

Arthur jumps to his feet, stark naked from the night before. He’s at the window before he can think about it.

There’s a goddamn war outside—a few men lying face down in the mud, a whole bunch of lawmen holding up a man standing over the dead bodies. When Arthur’s eyes stop burning from the sudden light, he realizes that the man being held up is _Micah_.

He gasps, and he _knows_ it’s a coincidence, but just then one of the lawmen turns around and looks straight at him through the glass. He yells something Arthur can’t make out, waves a hand, and then there are there’s the sound of footsteps in the mud and, what’s worse, on wood.

With the speed of a lightning Arthur drags a small table with toiletries to the door, blocking it, straight-up jumps inside his trousers lying just there on the floor, throws a shirt over his shoulders, and whether it’s his or Micah’s is too big of a question for him right now.

Arthur buckles his gunbelt and leaps out the window on the ramp of the roof. Without a second thought, he jumps into his pinto’s saddle. The horse’s small enough Arthur can reach to pull the reign knot to untether him, and then they’re off, bullets flying over Arthur’s head as they gallop up the main street and north.

He fumbles with his holster a bit too long in the rush, noticing the law of Strawberry isn’t so keen on letting him go. The pinto chooses that moment to get some use of the foolishly long rein and no leg to guide him and bolts into the forest on their left.

Arthur grabs at both the reins and the mane and squeezes the pinto’s sides with his knees. Still, he barely manages to stay in the saddle as another wave of pain, hot and sudden and way worse than before, surges from his lower back and up to his skull.

Still, something good does come out of the change of direction. His pursuers don’t go running into the woods after him. He isn’t that big of a target, and they already got Bell.

But screw that. He pushes the pinto almost to his limit, whirling past the Owanjila lake and up north and then down along Little Creek until he reaches Dakota River.

By then the sun’s high up in the sky, his unbuttoned shirt is drenched wet with sweat, and the pinto nearly stumbles to the ground when Arthur finally lets him slow down. He hangs his head low and breaths so badly and loudly Arthur’s worried for a moment the horse might keel over right under him—not like Arthur himself wouldn’t follow. The pinto’s neck and sides are covered in white foam, and Arthur feels so guilty he almost cries. Again.

It’s a goddamn hell. Bell’s captured, and if this won’t get spinned as Arthur’s fault, Dutch’ll still be pissed. They weren’t even supposed to be in Strawberry—let alone get in the law’s hands. 

How’s he going to explain this?

Looking down, he notices near black bruises on his torso and quickly buttons his shirt. His wrists spot grey and blue, red in places where the belt rubbed his skin raw.

How’s he going to explain the state he’s in?

Arthur lets the pinto choose his own pace, nudging him forward firmly through pain in his legs. They can’t stop. Not after a dash like this and not while still so close to Strawberry.

He can turn around, actually. Or even better, follow Dakota River south until he reaches Iron Lake and Blackwater, and then continue west and then north. Put miles and states between him and Micah; between him and facing Dutch.

It’s a scary thought, but what’s scarier is the weight of his revolver, out of nowhere too light in his sweaty palm, the trigger all too easy to pull once Arthur aims it on his temple.

Arthur nearly drops the thing when he realizes what he’s thinking. Can’t even remember unholstering the iron again and hastily puts it back.

That’s. That’s weak. He hasn’t— _been_ through things bad enough to consider that, to let Micah have the satisfaction of ending him or, or whatever. Arthur buries the trail of thought as deep as he can.

Horseshoe Overlook is in his view no less than ten hours later. The sun’s made its circle in the sky and is starting to set, and the horse under him snorts grudgingly. The pinto’s hungry. Frankly, he isn’t the only one, but both their hungers are Arthur’s fault.

Arthur lets the pinto suck on the river water once both of them have cooled down. He’s passing the burned-down town now, their camp just up on the hill. He climbs from the saddle, hissing at the pain in his heels and his lower back. The pinto doesn’t have to drag Arthur’s ass up the steep hill. Arthur can still damn walk.

It’s painful, though, and Arthur’s ready to give up not even halfway up. He pushes through, dreaming of his cot in the tent shared with John, of Copper’s head in his lap, some coffee and Hosea’s tired vigilance.

“Who’s there?!”

Charles’s on watch. Arthur wants to say, _me_. Nothing comes out. His mouth feels like a desert. He waves instead, hoping that’s enough to recognize him and the white spots on his pinto.

“You’re back—” and then Charles’s voice drops along with Arthur’s heart and he asks, clearly worried, “What happened? You hurt?”

Damn, does he really look that bad? Charles’s next to him in an instant, looking him over in the dim light.

“‘M fine, just…” Just. “‘Ot’to… ta’k to Du’ch.”

When Charles hesitates, Arthur takes his flask from him, downing its contents—lucky for him, water—in one go. The water cascades inside him like life itself, and he breathes in relief. Can’t help a stupid smile plasering on his face.

“What happened?”

“Don’t ask.”

He walks past, the pinto’s reins wrapped around his wrist, despite all of Hosea’s lessons against ever doing that.

It’s not like the poor animal has the energy to drag him anywhere.

The camp’s fully set up from the looks of it. Grimshaw even put the lamps near the hitching posts for the horses, along other things—Arthur drapes the reins over one, a promise of staying still for both him and the horse. Ungirths the saddle with a grunt and falls on his back pulling it off. It’s too heavy, maybe as heavy as him, and it’s too much to push off himself and get back up.

The pinto doesn’t look at him like he’s the idiot here. He’s too exhausted, so he sends him a look of almost understanding before munching down on the overgrown grass with the ferocity of a swamp gator.

Then Copper’s barking, leaping up to Arthur in long, joyful strides, licking his face and whining. Arthur raises his heavy arm to push him away from his face, laughs, only making it worse as he feels the damn dog licking his mouth.

“Christ, Arthur! Are you okay? What the hell happened?” Hosea’s steps are rushing to him. Someone takes the saddle from his hands, and then they’re hoisting him up and the word tilts back to normal again. “Tell me, _are you hurt?_ ”

Then there’s Dutch, and Miss Grimshaw, and Pearson, and Javier, all of them leading him to Dutch’s tent and sitting him on the bed.

“What happened, son?”

What happened? His thoughts are foggy; but oh, he remembers hatred and now it turns to joy—“They got Micah.”

“What? What are you saying?”

“They got Micah. He got his ass ‘rested… in Strawberry. I got out.” Maybe they’ll hang him.

Copper’s all fussy around them, jumping and running and spinning, wiggling his tail with such vigor half his body wiggles with it. Arthur gestures for him, just a slight tilt of his palm and the hound’s at him again in a split second, jumping in his lap and licking at his neck and whining like it’s the best day of his life.

“—Goddamn, Copper, _not now_ —”

“No, no, stay here, boy,” Arthur says before Dutch can drag the dog away. He hugs Copper, and the thing the size of a small wolf worms his way into his lap properly now, sitting there like he’s two months old again and small enough to fit into a saddle bag.

“C’mon, Dutch, he’s… Look at him.”

“Who’s gonna get Micah?”

“Fuckin’ lynch him,” leaves Arthur’s mouth before he can think. Copper licks his face happily like that’s the best idea. Dutch sucks in a breath the way that means he’s about to go off over their _foolish bluster_ , but Hosea stops him with a firm hand on his shoulder.

“C’mon, Arthur, up you get,” Hosea says, taking Arthur by the arm. Copper jumps to the ground and follows them happily, doing his best to tangle himself in Arthur’s legs and topple him again. Then they’re in Arthur’s tent—John isn’t here, and whether that’s a relief or more weight in Arthur’s chest he can’t tell.

“What happened to you, son?”

Hosea must be looking him over—really looking into all this with knowing eyes. Arthur’s face flushes hot and he pats his thigh, prompting Copper nestle in his lap again.

The gooddest dog obliges, hiding Arthur’s frame with his body.

“Arthur, please.”

“He was drinkin’. A lot. I—well, he made me… I don’t know, I don’t remember the night,” he lies. It’s easy, slipping off his tongue without much thinking. “Woke up to a mess out in the streets. I was in a hotel room, got away. Wasn’t comin’ back for that son of a bitch.”

“Got into quite a brawl last night, I presume.”

Not like it was his fault. “Just let him hang. Please.”

“That ain’t for me to decide.” Hosea puts a warm hand on his shoulder. Looks at him and Copper with a warm, sad smile. “I’m sorry. Get some rest, okay?”

“Y-yeah… Is John here?” he asks like a child scared of a thunderstorm.

“He’s at the campfire. About time he got his rest, too, with those wounds of his, don’t you think?”

Yeah.

“I’m gonna get him,” still, Hosea promises as he leaves.

John’s drunk, too. 

Not like Micah, though. John doesn’t get violent, or angry, or anything. The only times when Arthur’s seen him snap were when Abigail kept nagging at him.

It’s been months since Arthur chose to not judge Abigail and John’s relationship. Keeps him saner, this way. Abigail’s complaining about his brother to him? Yeah, John can be like that, so sorry he’s such an idiot. John ranting about all these damn women? Not like Arthur knows much, but that sure doesn’t sound like too much fun, Marston.

Tonight’s the night when Abigail’s too busy with Jack to try and talk sense into anyone, so John’s a model happy drunk. 

Except, it’s pretty late, seeing as John falls on his stomach, arm hanging off the cot, and starts snoring softly. 

Seems happy enough. 

And Arthur latches onto that, not minding his own place in the tent, snuggling up to John’s cot and under his travel blanket. He’s shivering and he’s sniffling and his damn shirt is ruined from how much he needs to blow his damn nose.

But John’s deep in his sleep and nobody checks on them, so Arthur falls asleep like that, shivering and crying and holding onto John’s hand.

He wishes the morning will never come. 

**Author's Note:**

> Phew didn't take me a year or anything. Hope you enjoy this, and if you do, please leave a comment! I love hearing from y'all


End file.
